a/3-? 

W3.7 


BEAUTIFUL  SNOW, 


ANL» 


OTHER    POEMS 


J,  W.    WATSON 

J 


PHILADELPHIA: 
TURNER     BROTHERS     &    CO., 

No.  808   CHESTNUT   STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tlw  year  1869,  by 
TURNER  BROTHERS  &  CO, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  M  me  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Eastern 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


TO    MY    MOTHER. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

BEAUTIFUL  SNOW 7 

THE  SUNLIGHT  IN  HER  HAIR 12 

NO  LETTER 16 

A  MILLION,  ALL  IN    GOLD 20 

DEATH'S  CARRIAGE  STOPS  THE  WAY 25 

MY  PIPE 30 

THE  DYING  SOLDIER 36 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  YACHTS 42 

"RING  DOWN  THE  DROP— I    CANNOT  PLAY." 46 

THE  OLDEST  PAUPER  ON  THE  TOWN 50 

DROWNED 55 

THE    SKATERS 61 

GIVE  ME  DRINK 68 

"IT  WILL  ALL  BE  RIGHT  IN  THE  MORNING." 72 

GOD   BLESS  YOUR  BEAUTIFUL  HAND 75 

FARMER  BROWN 78 

THE  PATTER  OF  LITTLE  FEET 83 

OLD  NEWS 87 

MISSING:    PRIVATE  WILLIAM   SMITH 94 

I  WISH  THAT  I   COULD  RUN  AWAY 97 

1*  5 


BEAUTIFUL    SNOW. 

S~\  H  !   the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow, 

Filling  the  sky  and  the  earth  below; 
Over  the  house-tops,   over  the  street, 
Over  the  heads  of  the  people  you  meet ; 
Dancing, 

Flirting, 

Skimming  aloni^. 

Beautiful  snow  !    it  can  do  nothing  wrong. 
Flying  to  kiss  a  fair  lady's  cheek ; 
Clinging  to  lips  in  a  frolicsome    freak. 
Beautiful  snow,  from  the  heavens  above,     « 
Pure  as  an  angel   and  fickle  as  love ! 

Oh  !    the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow ! 

How  the  flakes  gather  and  laugh  as  they  go ! 


8  BEAUTIFUL    SXO\V. 

Whirling  about  in  its  maddening  fun, 
It  plays  in  its  glee  with  every  one. 
Chasing, 

Laughing, 

Hurrying  by, 

It     lights     up     the     face     and     it     sparkles     the 

• 

eye ; 

And  even  the  dogs,  with  a  bark  and  a  bound, 
.Snap  at  the  crystals  that  eddy  around. 
The  town  is  alive,   and  its  heart  in  a  glow 
To  welcome  the  coming  of  beautiful  snow. 

How  the  wild  crowd  goes  swaying  along, 
Hailing  each  other  with  humor  and  song ! 
How  the  gay  sledges  like  meteors  flash  by — 
Bright  *'''''  '-'-  moment,  then  lost  to  the  eye. 
Ringing, 

Swinging, 

Dashing  they  go 
Over  the  crest  of  the  beautiful  snow : 


BEAUTIFUL   SNOW.  9 

Snow  so  pure  when  it  falls  from  the  sky, 

To   be   trampled    in    mud    by   the    crowd   rushing 

by: 
To  be  trampled  and  tracked  by  the  thousands  of 

feet 
Till  it  blends  with  the  horrible   filth  in  the  'street. 

Once  I   was  pure  as  the  snow — but  I  fell  : 

Fell,     like     the     snow-flakes,     from     heaven  —  to 

hell: 

Fell,  to  be  tramped  as  the  filth  of  the  street : 
Fell,  to  be  scoffed,  to  be  spit  on  and  beat. 
Pleading, 

Cursing, 

Dreading  to  die, 

Selling  my  soul  to  whoever  would  buy, 
Dealing  in  shame  for  a  morsel  of  bread, 
Hating  the  living  and  fearing  the  dead. 
Merciful  God  !    have  I  fallen  so  low? 
And  yet  I  was  once  like  this  beautiful   snow ! 


10  BEAUTIFUL    SNOW. 

Once  I  was  fair  as  the  beautiful  snow, 
With  an  eye  like  its  crystals,  a  heart  like,  its  glow ; 
Once  I  was  loved   for  my  innocent   grace — 
Flattered  and  sought  for  the  charm  of  my  face. 
Father, 

Mother, 

Sisters  all, 

God,  and  myself,  I  have  lost  by  my  fall. 
The  veriest  wretch  that  goes  shivering  by 
Will  take  a  wide  sweep,  lest  I  wander  too  nigh ; 
For  of  all  that  is  on  or  about  me,  I  know 
There    is    nothing   that's   pure    but    the    beautiful 
snow. 

How  strange  it  should  be  that  this  beautiful  snow 
Should  fall  on  a  sinner  with  nowhere  to  go  ! 
How  strange  it  would   be,  when   the  night  comes 

again, 
If   the    snow   and    the    ice    struck    my   desperate 

brain ! 


BEAUTIFUL    SNOW.  II 

Fainting, 

Freezing, 

Dying  alone 

Too  wicked  for  prayer,  too  weak  for  my  moan 
To  be  heard  in  the  crash  of  the  crazy  town, 
Gone  mad  in  its  joy  at  the  snow's  coming  down ; 
To  lie  and   to  die  in  my  terrible  woe, 
With  a  bed  and  a  shroud  of  the  beautiful   snow  1 


THE    SUNLIGHT    IN    HER    HAIR. 

'"T^HERE'S   an  old   stone  house,   on  a  lonely 

street — 

A  house  of  a  sombre  hue — 
And  day  by  day,  for  forty  years, 

I've  passed  within  its  view ; 
A  house  of  a  dead  and  mouldy  state — 
The  cast-off  shell  of  the  rich  and  great — 

It  frowns  on  the  street,  through  its  dingy  paint, 

In  a  consequential  way ; 
Seeming  to  shrink  from  the  summer  air 
And  the  yellow  sunlight's  play. 

But  I  watch  alone  the  one  bright  spot 

On  those  dingy,  sombre  walls, 
Where  a  woman  sits  at  her  daily  toil, 

And  the  yellow   sunlight  falls. 
12 


THE   SUNLIGHT  IN  HER   HAIP.  13 

I  have  watched  that  window  for  forty  years, 
Through    the  breaking  of  smiles   and   the    falling 

of  tears  : 

I    have   watched    the    jewel   my   heart    has   en 
shrined, 

And  my  daily  prayers  bless ; 
I    have    mingled    her    name    with    my    nightly 

dreams — 
Fair  Josephine  Van  Ness. 

And  never,  in  all  these  long,  long  years, 

Have  I  spoken  to  Josephine, 
But  I  watch  the  sunlight  play  in  her  hair 

And  the  shadows  pass  between ; 
And  I  muse  on  the  change  that  time  will  bring 
To  every  fair  and  beautiful  thing ; 

For  when  first  the  sunlight  fell  on  her  hair 

It  played  with  each  golden  braid ; 
But  the  gold  has  gone,  and  the  gathered  locks 

Are  with  lines  of  silver  laid. 
2 


H  THE   SUNLIGHT  IN  HER   HAIR. 

I  never  have  spoken  to  Josephine, 

Though  I've  loved  her  long  and  well ; 
But  the  dreams  I  have  dreamed  of  the  coining 

time 

Are  more  than  my  heart  can  tell. 
I  have  promised  myself  from  day  to  day, 
Till    my    step    has    grown    old    and    my    hair    has 

grown  gray, 
That    when     fortune    shall    favor    my    efforts    to 

rise, 

Dear  Josephine  shall  share, 
And  the  dim  old  house  shall  be  bright  again 
With  the  sunlight  in  her  hair. 

She  may  have  grown  old  to  other  eyes — 

To  mine  she  is  ever  the  same, 
Like  a  glorious  picture  mellowed  by  time, 

And  set  in  an  oaken  frame. 
For  many  and  many  a  toilsome  year 
I  lingered  in  passion,  or  shivered  in  fear, 


THE    SUNLIGHT  IN  HER    HAIR.  15 

Lest  some  who  were  greater  or  richer  than  I 

Should  mark  the  yellow  sheen 
Of  the  sunlight  dancing  in  her  hair, 

And  woo  my  Josephine. 

But  the  years  have  passed  us,  one  by  one. 

And  never  a  wooer  there  came ; 
They  may  have  slighted  the  toiling  girl, 

But  I  love  her  just  the  same. 
And  every  day  I  will  pass  the  street, 
Though  she  hears  not  the  sound  of  my  lingering 

feet; 
And  every  day,  through  the  winter's  snow, 

And  summer's  waving  green, 
I  will  look  at  the  window,  and  wait  for  the  time 
I  can  speak  to  Josephine. 


\ 

NO    LETTER. 

/^vH  HOPE!    thou  stolid  tenant  of 

Each  wayworn  wanderer's  worldly  breast, 
Can  no  alarms  before  thy  gate 

Erect  once  more   thy   warrior  crest? 
Hath  love  and  fortune,   long  deferred, 

So  palsied  all  thy  limbs  of  steel 
That  life  hath  nothing  in  its  creed 

o 

To  rouse  thee  up  for  woe  or  weal? 

With  listless  feet  and  vacant  air, 

On  distant  shores  I  mark  my  round, 

And  scan  with  careless   eye  the  crowds 
I  meet  on  unfamiliar  ground. 

Not  gaining  by  my  worldly  lore, 
Not  profiting  by  stranger   hands, 

16 


NO  LETTER. 

My  heart  goes  back  through  weary  miles 
To  clasp  the  love  of  other  lands. 

One  daily  pilgrimage   I  tread, 

The  Mecca  of  my  stolid   hope, 
One  path  in  utter  darkness  veiled, 

With  hands  outstretched,   I  daily  grope. 
Before  a  portal,   prison  barred, 

My  shibboleth  I   daily  sum, 
And  watch  a  youth  hold  countless  worlds 

Between  a  finger  and  a  thumb. 

I  watch  with  eager  eyes  his  face, 
On  which  unmeaning  silence  broods, 

Bent  o'er  the  eloquence  of  man 

In  all  his  wondrous  human   moods. 

I  chafe  when,  like  some  mere  machine, 

* 

On  Beauty's  missive  falls  his  touch, 
And  wonder  why  electric  force 

Should  not  unloose  the  vampyre  clutch. 

2  -  B 


1 8  NO  LETTER. 

Life,  love  and  death,  beneath  his  hand, 
Run  glib  and  facile  to  and  fro ; 

Stark,   staring  ruin,   sudden  wealth, 
Like  flashing  meteors  come  and  go. 

The  fierce  defiance,  greed  of  gold, 
The  cry.  for  mercy — softly  cried — 

And  one  faint,  wandering  line  from  him 

p 

Who  on  the  field  of  battle  died. 

My  turn  !     In  one  brief  second's  thought 

I  span  the  arc  of  changing  years ; 
My  heart  goes  out  through  boundless  space, 

With  choking,  throbbing  hopes  and  fears. 
I  think  of  one  who,  months  before. 

Hung  sobbing  on  my  burning  breast, 
Whose  words  still  linger  on  my  ear : 

"My  own;    my  heart's  beloved,  my  best!" 

I  think  of  how,  through  weary  days, 
I've  stood,  as  now,  before  the  gate, 


NO  LETTER.  19 

And  watched  the  human  form   within, 

Machine-like,  serve  the  crowds  that  wait :  • 

I  think  how,  at  the  whispered  name, 
His  hand  went  deftly  to  the  spot 

Where  life  and  death,  and  love  and  hate 
In  waiting  lay — but  mine  was  not. 

All  this  !  but  as  the  lightning's  flash 

Before  my  eyes  a  missive  lay ; 
A  stranger  hand — the  seal  unknown — 

What  can  this  fearsome  letter  say? 
God,  give  me  but  a  moment's  strength  ! 

Keep  still,  my  heart — the  seals  are  torn, 
One  line  alone,  the  rest  is  dark — 

"She  died  at  one  o'clock  this  morn!" 


A    MILLION,    ALL    IN    GOLDf 

r  ¥  ""HE  gallant  ship  went  down  at  sea, 

Went  down  in  the  shrieking  wind — 
Went  down  with  a  hundred  souls  on  board, 

And  left  no  trace  behind. 
She  was  dashing — dashing  grandly  on 

Where  the  storm-swept  waters  rolled ; 
Her  freight  was  a  hundred  beating  hearts, 

And  a  million — all  in  gold  ! 

The  night  was  dark  as  a  soul  condemned, 
And  the  scream  of  the  gale,  despair. 

The  shivering  crowds  that  clung  to  the  shrouds 
Were  raising  their  voices  in  prayer. 

She  rolled  in  the  dreadful  trough  of  the  sea,. 
And  their  grip  was  a  desperate   hold, 


A    MILLION,  ALL    IN   GOLD'.  21 

As  the  ship  went  down  with  a  trembling  moan, 
And  a  million — all  in  gold  ! 

The  darkness  closed  on  their  one  wild  dirge, 

And  the  lightning  gave  one  glare 
On  the  spot  where  a  group  of  ghost-like  eyes 

Were  fixed  in  a  deathly  stare  I 
But  the  morrow's  sun  shall  kiss  the  place 

Where  lie  in  the  waters  cold, 
A  hundred  corses,  stark  and  stiff, 

And  a  million — all  in  gold. 

A  thousand  weary  miles  away 

Is  a  man  with  silvery  hair, 
Who  bends  o'er  the  desk  in  his  counting-room, 

With  a  pale  and  frightened  air. 
He  grasps  the  sheet  that  brought  the  news 

In  a  strong,  convulsive  hold, 
And  groans,  "  O  God,  the  ship  is  lost, 

With  a  million — all  in  gold !" 


22  A   MILLION,  ALL   IN   GOLD: 

Where  flash  the  jewels  in  the  light, 

And  the  music's  master-tone, 
With  its  rich,  voluptuous,  softening  phrase, 

Makes  heart  and  soul  its  own, 
A  woman  sits,  superbly  fair, 

And  hears  the  story  told  ; 
She  heaves  a  sigh  for  the  glorious  ship, 
•  And  the  million — all  in  gold  ! 

A  mother  gropes  at  her  daily  toil 

Till  her  fingers  cramp  with  pain, 
But  she  knows  that  her  days  of  care  will  cease 

When   her  boy  shall  come  again ; 
But  now  her  task  will  never  be  done 

Till  she  lies  in  the  churchyard  mould ; 
Her  heart  went  down  with  the  gallant  ship, 

And  the  million — all  in  gold  ! 

The  mariner's  wife  has  kissed  her  babe 
And    hushed  it  with  a  song — 


A    MILLION,  ALL    IN   GOLD!  23 

A  song  of  hope   and  the  coming  time 

She  has  taught  her  heart  so  long. 
She  never  will  sing  that  song  again, 

For  the  sailor  stout  and   bold 
Went  down  in  the  sea,  with  the  foundered  ship, 

And  the  million — all  in  gold  ! 

And  twice  ten  thousand  careless  eyes 

Shall  read  of  the  missing  sail, 
And  twice  ten  thousand  careless  ears 

Shall   listen  to  the  tale. 
And  all  that  careless,  listening  crowd, 

The  young,  the  gay,  the  old, 
Shall  speak  of  the  fate  of  the  gallant  ship, 

And  the  million — all  in   gold  ! 

There  are  other  eyes  and  other  ears 
Than  that  careless,  listening  crowd — 

Eyes  that  are  weeping  endless  tears, 
And  hearts  that  cry  aloud  ! 


24  A    MILLION,  ALL   IN   GOLD  I 

Hearts  that  shall  cry  for  evermore, 
While  the  bells  of  life  are  tolled, 

For  the  glorious  ship  that  went  to  sea, 
With  a  million — all  in  gold  I 


DEATH'S  CARRIAGE  STOPS  THE 
WAY. 

1\  /TY  Lady  Clara,  rich  in  grace, 

And  rich  in   all  the  charm  of  face, 

Has  marked  her  course  upon  life's  way 
With  bold,   imperious,  haughty  sway. 

She  walks  embodied  Fashion's  queen, 

The  bowing  ranks  of  life  between. 

• 

She  scorns  the  earth,  rebukes  the  sky 
With  spurning  tread  and  glancing  eye. 

And -thus  my  lady  goes  her  way, 
Still  stern  and  cold  with  every  day. 

3  25 


26        DEATH'S    CARRIAGE   STOPS    THE    WAT. 

My  lady,  lapped   in  luscious  ease, 
With  all  appliances  to  please, 

Drove  through  the  crowd  that  stood  amaze 
Behind  her  team  of  dappled  grays  ; 

Not  thankful  for  the  summer  air, 
But  angered  at  the  vulgar  stare. 

She  sat  in  state  to  beauty  blind, 
And  stately  footmen   clung  behind, 

While  prudent  hands  her  horses  guide ; 
All  this  to  feed  my  lady's  pride. 

But  something  checks  my  lady's  course ; 
Amid  the  crush  of  man  and  horse, 

Her  carriage  stands  for  moments  still, 
Against  her  fierce  commanding  will. 


DEATH'S    CARRIAGE    STOPS    THE    WAY.        27 

"Go  on!"  she  cried  with  kindling  face; 
Who  dares  to  stop  my  lady's  pace? 

"  Go  on  !"   she   cried,  yet  pranced  each  gray, 
Without  proceeding  on  its  way. 

"  Go  on  !"  once   more  she  cries  in  wrath  ; 
"What  minion   dares  to  stop   my  path?" 

Then  hears  her  placid  coachman  say, 
"Death's  carriage,   lady,   stops  the  way." 

Why  grows  my  lady  sudden   pale? 
Why  do  her  stern   commandings  fail? 

Among  the  guests  who  pass   her  door, 
Has  she  ne'er  heard  that  name  before? 

Nay  !    yes,   full   well   she  knows  the  name 
Of  him   who  once  in  welcome  came, 


28       DEATH'S    CARRIAGE   STOPS    THE    WAT. 

Passed  in  her  loveless,  wedded  door, 
And  loosed  the  fetters  that  she  wore. 

i 
But  now  the  mention  made  her  start, 

And  checked  the  life-blood. in  her  heart. 

Death's  carriage  stops  my  lady's  way, 
While  smiled  the  gorgeous  summer  day ! 

Her  carnage  moves,  the  moments  fly, 
And  man  and  horse  rush  swiftly  by, 

But  still  my  lady's  stately  pace 
Keeps-  time  with  all    her  stately  grace, 

Until   before   her   portal    stays 

Her    stately  team  of  prancing  grays, 

And   stately  footmen,  from   their    height, 
Descend   to    see    my  lady  light. 


DEATH'S    CARRIAGE   STOPS    THE    WAT.       29 

Why  comes    she  not?     With  wondering   stare, 
In    silence,   gaze   the   lackeys  where 

The  open    door   invites    approach 
To   help   my  lady  from    her   coach. 

At   length,  one  bolder  than    the   rest, 
Stooped    low,  for   once,  his    stately  crest, 

And    peering    to    the    cushioned    deeps, 
He  whispered  soft,    "My  lady  sleeps!" 

She   sleeps,  ay,  sleeps   the    sleep  of  death ; 
His   touch   has   chilled    her  stately  breath ; 

His,  the  one   power    that    dared   to    stay 

My  lady's  carriage  on  its  way. 
3* 


MY    PIPE. 

AT  7 HAT!  sell  my  pipe,   sir?     By  old  Jove! 
Ha !    ha !    excuse  my  ill-seemed  mirth. 
Why.  boy,  to  get  that  pipe  I  clove 

A  trooper  to  his  saddle-girth  ! 
What's  that?     Why,  more  than  you  have  done, 

My  white-faced  lad,  or  you  will  do, 
If  you  but  end  as  you've  begun  : 

Mind  what  I  tell  you,   lad,   'tis  true  ! 

Put  up  your  money  ;  this  old  pipe 
May  be,  as  you  have  said,  a  gem  : 

Whoever  loosens  death's  last  gripe 
Will  find  it  here,  a  prize  to  them. 

A  beauty !   yes  indeed,   a  pearl ! 

See  how  the  rich  brown  color  glows ; 
20 


MT  PIPE.  31 

The  blushes  of  a  pretty  girl, 

The  heart's  core  of  the  deep  red  rose  ! 

Pshaw  !    sell   my  pipe  !  the  thing's  absurd  ! 

My  silver-lipped,  my  amber-tipped  ! 
See   here,   my  lad,  perhaps  you've   heard 

About  a  pack  of  fellows  whipped 
At  Gettysburg?     Well,  I   was  there, 

Where  showers  of  ball  ploughed  up  the  ground 
Beneath  the  footsteps  of  my  mare, 

Who  challenged  death  at  every  bound  ! 

Up  came  an  order  from  our  chief 

To  take  a  belching  battery  nigh  : 
Our  captain's  words  were  sharp  and  brief, 

"Forward!    which  of  ye   fears  to   die?" 
Like  one  united  mass  we  sprang 

O'er  abattis  :  the  wrorks  were  won ; 
With  one  wild  shout  the  hillside  rang, 

And   then  we  spiked  each  murderous  gun  I 


32  Mr  PIPE. 

Just  then  a  cloud  of  horsemen  rushed 

Upon  our  rear  like  some  tierce  gust : 
By  very  count  they  should    have  crushed 

Our  little  band  into  the  dust. 
Full  five  to  one  the  squadron  came ; 

Thank  God  !   we  knew  not  how  to  fly, 
For,  I'll  be  sworn,  each  felt  the  same, 

As  men  who  did  not  fear  to  die. 

Wild  was  the  crash ;   the  shrieks,  the  yells, 

The  screaming  of  the  frightened  steeds ! 
It  seemed  as  though  a  score  of  hells 

Had  loosed  their  fiends  for  bloody  deeds  J 
Each  man  of  all  our  little  band 

Fought  like  a  hundred  men  in  one, 
Slashing  his  foes  on  either  hand, 

As  though  'twere  but  a  bit  of  fun. 

At  last,  with  half  our  comrades  slain, 
We  beat  the   foemen  wildly  back, 


MT  PIPE.  33 

And  fiercely  over  hill  and  plain 

We  smote  them  on  their  flying  track. 

My  arm  was  hardened  steel  that  day 
From  shoulder  to  my  sword's  red  tip ; 

But  still,   no  blood  was  in  the  fray 
Of  mine,   save  from  my  bitten  lip. 

But  I   had  seen   my  brother  fall — 

Hewed  down  by  one  great,  giant  blow : 
The  sight  had  turned  my  blood  to  gall, 

And  almost  checked  its  living  flow. 
I  bent  my  mare's  long  reaching  stride 

On  every  flying  wretch  I  scanned, 
Sworn  that  no  spot  on  earth  should  hide 

The  murderer  from  my  vengeful  hand. 

The  night  was  closing  in   around, 

With  just  enough  of  light  to  see, 
When  suddenly   I   heard  the  sound 

Of   clattering   hoofs   not  far  from   me. 


34  MY  PIPE. 

I  turned  my  mare,   and   stood  on  guard, 

My  ready  sabre  on  my  knee ; 
My  listening  heart  beat  quick  and  hard, 

For  something  whispered,    "This  is  he!" 

I  knew  him  at  our  horses'  length. 

Though  but  a  glimpse  I  had  before — 
His  fierce,  black  eye,   his  size  and  strength, 

His  hands  all  smeared  with  blackened  gore ; 
And  in  his  tightly  clenched  teeth 

He  held  this  pipe  with  mocking  grin — 
A  grin  that  hid  a  fiend  beneath  ; 

A  murderous  fiend  there  lurked  within. 

He  stretched  his  head,  with  straining  eyes, 
Thinking  my  silent  form  a  friend  : 

I  marked  him  for  a  certain  prize, 
And  grasped  my  sabre  for  the  end. 

Just  then  he  thrust  his  cursed  face 
Far  forward  from  his  saddle-bow, 


MT  PIPE.  35 

And  with  a  puff  lit  all  the   place, 
And  knew  me  for  his  deadly  foe. 

But  ere  his  horse  could   backward  spring, 

I  clutched  this  pipe  with  fiercest  hate ; 
Then,  with  one  quick  and  desperate  swing, 

My  good  sword  fell — alas  !    too  late  ! 
He  charged,  and,  in  his  fearful  haste, 

He  only  took  my  bridle-arm  ; 
I  cut  him,  cleanly,  to  his  waist : — 

An  arm  the  less,  boy,  that's  no  harm  ! 

So  that's  the  way  my  pipe  was  won. 

Now,  do  you  think  I'd  sell  my  prize  ! 
Why,  all  the  gold  beneath  the  sun 

Would  not  so  fill  my  loving  eyes. 
I  kiss  its  bowl  for  memory's  sake — 

The  memory  of  my  brother  Steve ; 
It's  presence  keeps  the   thought   awake 

Of   him    I    slew   that  summer  eve. 


THE    DYING    SOLDIER. 

QTEADY,  boys,   steady  !  • 

Keep  your  arms  ready  ! 

God  only  knows  whom  we  may  meet  here. 
Don't  let  me  be  taken  : 

Fd  rather  awaken 
To-morrow  in — no  matter  where — 
Than  lie  in  that  foul  prison-hold  over  there. 

Step  slowly ! 

Speak  lowly  ! 

These  rocks  may  have  life. 

Lay  me  down  in  this  hollow ; 

We  are  out  of  the  strife. 

By  heavens  !  these  fellows  may  track  me  in  blood, 
For  this  hole  in  my  breast  is  outpouring  a  flood. 


THE  Dl'ING   SOLDIER.  37 

No !     No    surgeon    for    me,    he    can    give    me    no 

aid ; 

The  surgeon  I  want  is  a  pickaxe  and  spade. 
What,    Morris,    a     tear?     why     shame     on     you 

man  ! 

I  thought  you  a'  hero ;  but  since  you've  began 
To  whimper  and  cry,  like  a  girl  in  her  teens, 
By  George !  I  don't  know  what  the  devil  it 

means  ! 

Well !    well !     I    am    rough ;    'tis    a    very    rough 

school, 

This  life  of  a  trooper,  but  yet  I'm  no  fool ! 
I  know  a  brave  man,  and  a  friend  from  a  foe, 
And,  boys,  that  you  love  me  I  certainly  know. 

But  wasn't  it  grand, 
When    they  came   down   the    hill,  over   sloughing 

and    sand  ? 

But  we  stood — did  we  not? — like  immovable  rock, 
Unheeding   their  balls  and  repelling  their  shock. 

4 


3#  THE  DYING   SOLDIER. 

Did    you  mind  the  loud  cry, 

When,    as  turning  to  fly, 
Our  men  sprang  upon  them,  determined  to  die? 

Oh  !   wasn't  it  grand  ! 

God    help    the    poor    wretches    that    fell    in    that 

fight ; 

No  time  was  there  given  for  prayer  or  for  flight : 
They    fell    by   the    score    in   the    crash,    hand    to 

hand, 
And  they  mingled    their  blood  with  the  sloughing 

and  sand. 

Huzza ! 
Great     heavens !     this    bullet-hole     gapes    like    a 

grave ; 

A  curse  on  the  aim  of  that  villainous  knave  ! 
Is  there  never  a  one  of  you  knows  how  to  pray, 
Or  speak  for  a  man  as  his  life  ebbs  away? 
Pray! 

Pray! 


THE   DYING   SOLDIER.  39 

Thy    kingdom    come,     thy    will — why    don't    you 

proceed  ? 
Can't  you    see   I   am    dying?     Great   God,   how  I 

bleed  ! 
Ebbing  away  ! 

Ebbing  away  ! 

The  light  of  the  day 
Is  turning  to  gray. 

Pray  !   pray  ! 
And     forgive     us     our     trespasses  —  tell     me     the 

rest 
While  I  stanch    the    hot   blood    from    this    hole   in 

my  breast. 
Say  something    to    smooth    the    rough    road    I   am 

bound  ; 

I  am  galloping  fast  over  dangerous  ground. 
Do  you  think  the  good  Master  above  will — Pray ! 

pray  ! 
Can't     you     see     how    my    life-blood     is     ebbing 

awav  ? 


40  THE  DYING   SOLDIER. 

Here,     Morris,     old     fellow,     get     hold     of     my 

hand ; 
And,     Wilson,     my     comrade  —  Oh!     wasn't     it 

grand 

When   they  came    down   the   hill,  like  a  thunder- 
charged  cloud, 
And  were    scattered   like  mist   by  our  brave   little 

crowd?. 
Where's  Wilson?     My  comrade,  here,  stoop  down 

your  head, 
Can't   you   say  a  short   prayer   for   the    dying — or 

dead? 
Christ,  God,  who  died  for  sinners  all, 

Hear  thou  this  suppliant  wanderer's  cry, 
"Let  not  e'en  this  poor  sparrow  fall, 

Unheeded  by  thy  gracious  eye. 
Throw  wide  the  gates,  to  let  him  in, 

And  take  him  pleading,  to  thine  arms, 
Forgive,  O  Lord,  his  lifelong  sin, 

And  quiet  all  his  fierce  alarms. 


THE   DTING   SOLDIER.  41 

God    bless    you,    my    comrade,    for    singing    that 

hymn ; 
It  is  light  to  my  path  when  my  sight   has  grown 

dim. 
I    am   dying — bend    down,  till    I   touch   you   once 

more — 
Don't    forget    me,    old    fellow — God    prosper    this 

war  ! 

Confusion  to  foes,  but — keep  hold  of  my  hand — 
But  pray  that  peace  comes  to  a  prosperous  land ! 

4* 


THE    SAILING    OF    THE    YACHTS 

T  TP  pennon — heave  the  deep-sea  lead; 

Our  course  lies  to  the  sun  : 
God's  grace  to  each  stout  mariner, 

Until  the  strife  be  done. 
Between  us  and  the  restless  waves 

An  inch  of  plank  stands  guard ; 
White-bearded,  and  with  threatening  moans, 

They  follow  swift  and  hard. 

With  three  proud  colors  in  the  air — 

The  red,  the  white,  the  blue — 
Three  tiny  vessels,  trusting  God, 

Away  to  eastward  flew. 
Stout  hearts  looked  forward  on  the  path, 

Nor  dreamed   mischance  could    be. 

42 


THE   SAILING    OF   THE    TACHTS.  43 

Such  faith  had  each  bold  seaman  in 
These  graces  of  the  sea. 

Through  blinding  snow  and  cutting  wind, 

In  dreary  winter-time. 
They  swept  along  the  trackless  deep 

Like  some  fierce  Norseman's  rhyme. 
They  sped  as  speeds  the  wild  sea-bird 

When  bursts  the  tempest  wind; 
They  sped  as  speeds  the  swift  narvvhale. 

And  leave  the  waves  behind. 

Sweeps  down  the  icy  northern  blast 

Along  their  watery  course, 
Yet  never  dreams  the  seaman  bold 

Of   shipwreck  or  of  loss. 
His  wishful  eye  is  fondly  bent 

Toward  an  alien  shore, 
And  watchful    for  each  offering  gale 

To  haste  the  journey  o'er. 


44  THE   SAILING   OF  THE    TACHTS. 

Speed  on,  ye  tiny  winged   barks, 

By  Yankee  seamen  manned, 
And  bear  glad  news  through  waves  and  wind 

To  yon  proud  Eastern  land. 
Show  them  the  blood  from  whence  ye  sprang 

Has  in  your  keeping  throve, 

And  that  a  native  of  your  land 
• 

Is  one  remove  from  Jove. 

Show  them  that  when  your  manhood  wills, 

No  winds  can  stop  the  way  ; 
That  angry  waves  but  speed  you  on, 

By  darkness  or  by  day. 
Show  them  that  this  same  dauntless  will 

That  bore  you  to  their  shore, 
Within  the  land  you  left  behind 

Lives  in  a  million  more. 

Show  them  that  through  our  woeful  pains 
Still  throbbed  the  nation's  heart ; 


THE   SAILING    OF   THE    YACHTS.  45 

That  sword  and   bayonet  has  not 

Yet  killed  the  nation's  art. 
Show  them  that  through  the  deadly  strife 

That  rent  us  to  the  core, 
We  still  had  men  enough  to  wield 

The  hammer  and  the  saw. 

So  be  your  mission  one  of  joy 

To  all  the  human  race ; 
And  hands  that  welcome  you  shall  be 

The  hands  of  courtly  grace. 
So  shall  your  presence  in  the  East 

Untie  some  Gordian  knots, 
And  make  the  song  of  songs  to  be 

The  "Sailing  of  the  Yachts." 


"RING  DOWN    THE    DROP  — I  CAN 
NOT    PLAY." 

S~\  H  !    painted  gauds  and  mimic  scenes, 

And    pompous  trick  that  nothing  means ! 
Oh  !    glaring  light  and  shouting  crowd, 
And   love-words  in   derision   vowed  ! 
Oh  !    crowned    king  with  starving  eyes, 
And  dying  swain  who  never  dies  ! 
Oh  !    hollow  show  and  empty  heart, 
Great  ministers  of  tragic  art ! 

*'  There's  that  within  which  passeth  show :" 
The  days  they  come,  the  days  they  go. 
We  live  two  lives,  on  either  page — 
The  one  upon  the  painted  stage, 

4fi 


"RING   DOWN   THE   DUO  I1"  47 

With  all  the  world  to  hear  and  gaze, 
And  comment  on  each  changing  phase ; 
The  other,  that  sad  life  within, 
Where  love  may  purify  a  sin. 

Ring  up  the  drop,  the  play  is  on ; 
Our  hour  of  entrance  comes  anon. 
Choke  down  the  yearnings  of  the  soul ; 
Weak,  doting  fool!  art  thou  the  whole? 
The  stage  is  waiting,  take  thy  part ; 
Forget  to-night  thou  hast  a  heart ; 
Let  sunshine  break  the  gathering  cloud, 
And  smile  thou  on  the  waiting  crowd. 

Hear  how  their  plaudits  fill  the  scene : 
Is  not  thy  greedy  ear  full  keen? 
Is  not  a  thousand  shouts  a  balm 
For  all  thy  throbbing  heart's  alarm? 
"To  be  or  not  to  be" — the  screed 
Is  listened  to  with  breathless  heed. 


48  "RING   DOWN    THE    DROP" 

O  painter  with  a  painted  mask  ! 

Is  thy  brain  wandering  from  thy  task? 

• 

Can   it   be   true   that   scores  of  years 

Do   not   suffice   to    murder   tears? 

Can   it   be   true   that   all  of  art 

Has   failed   to   teach   the   human   heart? 

Can  gauds,   and   tricks,   and    shout,   and   glare, 

The   deafening   drum,  the   trumpet's   blare, 

With   all   their   wild,   delirious   din, 

Not   stifle   this   sad    life  within? 

I 

Pah,   man!   the    eager   people  wait; 
Go   on   with    all   thy  studied   prate. 
Shall   you   not   feed   their   longing   eyes 
Because — because  a  woman    dies? 
What   cares   the   crowd   for   dying   wives, 
For   broken   hearts,    or   blasted   lives ! 
They  paid   their   money,   and — they  say — 
Living   or   dead,    on    with   the   play. 


"RING   DOWN   THE  DROP."  49 

What!  staggering,  man?  why,  where's  your  art? 

That   stare  was   good ;    that   tragic   start 

Would   make   your   fortune,   were  it  not 

That   it   rebukes   the    author's   plot. 
"My  wife   is  dying!"   He   ne'er  wrote 

The  words  that  struggle  in  thy  throat. 
"Take  back  your  money,"  did  you  say? 
"Ring  down  the  drop — I  cannot  play." 

Ring   down   the   drop ;    the   act   is   o'er ; 
Her   bark   has   touched   the   golden   shore, 
While,    reading   from   life's   inner   page, 
Stands   there   the    actor  of  the   stage ; 
But   not   upon   the   cold,    white    corse 
Falls   there    a   word  of  sad   remorse 
From    all  that   crowd   who   heard   him   say, 
"Ring   down   the  drop — I  cannot   play." 

5  D 


THE  OLDEST  PAUPER  ON  THE 
TOWN. 

A   ND   so  old   Betsey  Green  is  dead ! 

The  oldest  pauper  on  the  town ; 
She  who  has  eaten  public  bread — 

Bread  of  the    most   unchanging   brown — 
For  six-and-thirty  years. 

Old   Betsey  Green  is  under  sod, 

Mixed   in  with   loads  of  human  clay ; 

No  surpliced   priest   appealed   to   God, 
And  challenged   in   the   light  of  day 
.     A  waiting   crowd   to   tears. 

They  wrapped   her   lifeless,   withered  form 
In   the   scant   sheet  whereon    she  lay ; 

And  while    her   limbs  were    lithe    and  warm 
They  bore  poor   Betsey  Green    away, 
Lest   she   recover   breath. 

50 


THE    OLDEST  PAUPER   ON   THE    TOWN.       51 

They  nailed    the  county  coffin  down, 
With    man}'-  jokes  on    her   who    died; 

And   one  old   pauper   on   the    town, 
And    only  one  old    pauper,    cried — 
From   selfish   fear  of  death. 

A   gravel-wagon   bore   the    load, 

Unwashed,  unswept  from  mud  and  mire ; 
The    driver  jolting   o'er   the    road, 

Lest   for  the   pittance  of  his    hire 
He    gave   it   too    much    ride. 

And   then   the   three-foot   pauper-grave — 
Unwilling   digged   by  pauper    hands — 

Where  one — half  idiot,    half  knave — 
With  whitened   hair,   in  waiting   stands 
For   Betsey   Green  who   died. 

He    shovels   in   the    frozen   clods. 

He   chuckles    as   they  rattle    down, 
And   to    himself  he    laughs    and    nods — 

This    oldest   pauper   on    the   town, 
Since    Betsey   Green    is    dead. 


52        THE    OLDEST  PAUPER    ON    THE    TOWN. 

«'  I    can    remember   well,"    he   croaks, 
"That   she   was    lair    as    any   queen; 
And  well   to    do  were  all   the   folks 
Who  were  of  kin  with   Betsey  Green 
The   day  that   she  was  wed ; 

"  For    all   the    maids    in    miles    about 

Had   set  their   caps    at   Robert   Green — 
The    comeliest   lad  without  a  doubt, 
.  The   country-side   had   ever   seen — 
And   she   the    greatest   catch. 

"And   Betsey,   she   had  babes    as   fair 

As   though   she'd   chosen   gifts   for   each : 
They  had   their   mother's  eyes   and   hair, 
And  Robert's  wheedling  treacherous  speech 
The    selfish,   greedy  wretch! 

"He   spent  the   gold   her   father   gave;' 

He   mortgaged    all   her   broad   farm-lands ; 
She   toiled   and  watched,  to   earn   and   save ; 
He   never   soiled    his    dainty  hands, 
Or   browned    his    handsome    face. 


THE    OLDEST  PAUPER    ON   Tllti    TOWN.       53 

"  "Fwas   well    lor    her,    the    neighbors    said, 

When,   on    one    cold,   December   day, 
They  found    him,   in   a   snow-wreathed   bed, 
Upon   the   ice-bound   public  way, 
Fast   locked   in    Death's    embrace. 

"For   Robert   loved    the   liquor-can 

Too  well   to    save    his   face   or   life : 
The   bloated    semblance  of  a  man 

Was    all   they  brought   the   stricken  wife 
From   where   he   late    had   lain. 

"Year   after  year,   by  day  and   night, 

Her   hands    and   head  were   never   still. 
Her   girls  were   fair,,   her   boys  were   bright— 
Not   one  of  all   the    six   did   ill, 
In  wedding   or   in    gain. 

"Still,    Betsey    could   not   keep    away 

The    spectre  who  will    never  wait; 
And    so  one    stern    and   bitter   day, 

She    stood   before   the  workhouse   gate, 
To   beg   for   pauper   fare. 

5* 


54        THE    OLDEST  PAUPER    ON    THE    TOWN. 

"Time  flies!    time  flies!    and    Betsey's   dead! 
And   then,    next,  comes    my  turn    to    die. 
A  hundred   years   were   on    her   head- 
Ten   years   the    elder   she   than   I — 
How  soon   shall    I   be   there !" 

Again    he    stamped   the    frozen    ground, 
With   feeble    step    and   vacant   stare ; 

Cast   one    long,   idle    look    around, 
And   left  old   Betsey  lying   there, 
To  wait   her   God    and   crown. 

Ah,   well!    poor   Betsey's  pauper   blood 

Runs   proudly  through    some    purple    veins ; 

No   base  suspicion    taints   its   flood, 

Of  this,   the  worst  of  earthly  stains — 
A  pauper   on    the   town ! 


DROWNED! 

"\T  7HERE   the   mud   lies   black   and    slimy, 

Where   the  waters    sweep    along, 
Where  the  wharfmen,  stout  and  grimy, 
Heave  and  haul  with  many  a  song — 
Heaving  still 

With  a  will, 

Every  coming  dray  to  fill , 
Hauling,  with  a  laugh  and  shout, 
Bales  of  wondrous  size  about; 
Straining  to  the  ponderous  weight 
Of  the  good  ship's  wealthy  freight. 

Where  the  wide  and  swelling  river 
Rolls  in  one  perpetual  rhyme : 

55 


56  DROWNED! 

Where  the  gracious  winds  deliver 
Glorious  things  from  every  clime — 
Stuffs  to  wear, 
Spices  rare, 

Lie  in  heaps,  or  scent  the  air; 
Where  the  merchant,  full  of  gold, 
Welcomes  home  the  seamen  bold ; 
Where  each  heart,  its  love  confessed, 
Clasps  the  loved  one  to  the  breast; 

Where  the  soft-voiced  land-breeze  ever 
Hums  its  tune  by  mast  and  shroud, 
Where  the  rough-tongued  master  never 
Ceases  crying  to  the  crowd — 
"With  a  haul, 

Lubbers  all, 

Stretch  your  muscles  to  the  fall  !" 
Where  the  never-ceasing  flow, 
Man  above,  and  waves  below, 


DROWNED!  57 

Night  and  day  pours  on  and  off, 
Mingling  at  the  city  wharf; — 

There  the  vagrant  boy  is  standing 

With  a  ghastly,  frightened  air; 
While  each  lounger  is  demanding 

What  he  sees  to  make  him  stare. 
Still  his  eyes 

Grow  in  size 

As  his  stammering  speech  he  tries ; 
And  his  finger  points  below, 
Where  the  waters  ebb  and  flow : 
Still  his  lips  give  forth  no  sound 
But  a  hoarsely-whispered  "Drowned!" 

Where  the  planks  are  green  and  rotten, 
Sending  forth  a  sickening  steam, 

Where  the  daylight  is  forgotten, 

And  the  wharf-rat  reigns  supreme — 


58  DROWNED! 

In  his  eyes 

Fierce  surprise 

At  his  toothsome  human  prize : 
Squeaking,  gibbering  forth  a  cry, 
As  the  crash  above  goes  by ; 
Heeding  neither  man  nor  horse 
In  his  battles  o'er  the  corse. 

With  a  crowbar  to  the  planking, 
With  the  tackle  and  the  fall, 

With  a  heave,  and  with  a  clanking, 
Shivering  hands  give  willing  haul. 
There  he  lies  ! 
Open  eyes 

Turned  toward  the  sunlit  skies ; 

There  he  lies  in  oozing  slime, 

Heedless  of  the  place  and  time ; 

Heedless  of  the  gazing  throng, 

Heedless  of  the  clash   and  song. 


DROWNED!  59 

Sunlight  falls  like  shadows  fading, 

Still  the  song  goes  on  aloud — 
Still  with  gaze  that  seems  upbraiding 

Stares  the  dead  man  on  the  crowd. 
Hours  fly 

Swiftly  by ; 

Sunset  darkens  on  the  sky, 
Ere  the  lingering  men  and  boys 
Hear  the  dead-cart's  rumbling  noise 
O'er  the  distant  stone-clad  ground, 
Coming  for  the  man  that's  "Drowned.'* 

Had  his  limbs  been  clothed  in  scarlet, 

Were  his  linen  rich  and  rare, 
Had    he  been  the  veriest  varlet, 
Tainting  God's  own  perfumed  air, 
Would    he  lie, 

While  hours  fly, 
Staring  sightless  to  the  sky? 


60  DROWNED  I 

Would  the  crowd  so  careless  stand 
If  a  gem  gleamed  on  his  hand? 
Would  they  sing  and  laugh  around. 
Were  he  better  dressed  when  '-  Drowned?** 


THE    SKATERS. 

T    STOOD  on  the  frozen  river, 
Watching  the  skaters  go  by; 
They  were  laughing  and  shouting  merrily 

Under  the  cold  gray  sky ; 
Lazily  swinging  their  way  along, 
Cheerfully  singing  some  snatches  of  song, 
Skimming  like  birds  on  the  face  of  the  waves, 
Swimming  like  fish  in  their  deep-sea  caves. 

I  saw  not  an  eye  but  sparkled, 

Not  a  step  but  was  careless  and  free ; 

They  were  laughing  and  shouting  merrily, 

And   as  happy  as  happy  could  be  ; 
Carefully  staying  the  speed  in  their  pace, 

Warily  weighing  the  chance  in  a  race, 

6  ci 


62  THE   SKATERS. 

Winging    their   way   through    the    change   in   the 

throng, 
Singing  the  score  of  the  SKATER'S  SONG. 


Over  the  ice,  like  the  swallows,  I  fly, 
With  light  in  my  heart  and  light  in  my  eye ; 
The  swiftest  of  runners  their  tardiness  feel 
When    my    feet    are    encased    in    the    glistening 
steel. 

Away  I  dash, 

Like  the  lightning's  flash, 
Or  the  racer  under  the  rider's  lash. 

Eyes  that  look  out  from  the  loveliest  face 
Laugh  at  my  follies  or  smile  at  my  grace  ; 
The  life  of  my  blood  courses  up  to  the  brain, 
And  the  days  of  my  boyhood  come  to  me  again. 
I  look  not  back, 

Though  the  ice  may  crack, 
For  a  hundred  come  like  wolves  on  my  track. 


THE   SKATERS  63 

Up  to  the  north,  in  the  face  of  the  gale, 
Breathless  we  turn,  spreading  out  for  the  sail ; 
A  fleet  of  gay  steamers  rush  down  on  the  wind, 
Leaving   Time  and  the  sluggards  completely  be 
hind ; 

For  life  but  waits, 

At  Pleasure's  gold  gates, 
For  the  hours  we  spend  on  the  glorious  skates. 


I  stood  on  the  frozen  river, 

Watching  the  skaters  go  by ; 
They  were  laughing  and  shouting  merrily, 

Under  the  cold  gray  sky ; 
Joyfully  greeting  the  calls  of  a  friend, 
Heartily  meeting  the  jibes  they  may  send, 
Kissing  the  lips  of  the  loved  ones  that  stay, 
Missing  the  lips  of  the  loved  ones  away. 

There  wag  one  in  the  midst  of  the  skaters, 
A  beautiful  boy  of  ten, 


64  THE   SKATERS. 

With  a  dreamy,   dark-eyed  beauty, 

Who  flitted  among  the  men ; 
Laughingly  winning  his  way  along, 
Scarcely  beginning  to  feel  himself  strong, 
Stumbling  and  catching  his  step  from  a  fall, 
Tumbling  and  rolling  about  like  a  ball. 

There  was  one  in  the  crowd  of  watchers 

Who  watched  the  boy  in  his  play, 
Whose  eye  was  ever  upon  him 

Whenever  he  wandered  away ; 
Smilingly  gazing  at  each  new  start, 
Silently  praising  the  child  in  her  heart, 
Willing  to  follow  the  steps  of  her  boy, 
Filling   her  soul  with  his  frolicsome  joy. 

I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  skaters, 
And   looked  at  it  all  as  a  dream ; 

But  my  heart  was  suddenly  wakened 
With  a  single  death-like  scream ; 


THE   SKATERS.  65 

Fearfully  filling  the  chill  winter  air, 
Instantly  stilling  the  song  that  was  there, 
Crushing  the  light  from  a  thousand  of  eyes, 
Hushing  in  terror  a  thousand  of  sighs. 

Where  is  the  dark-eyed  boy? 

And  the  ever-watching   mother? 
A  shrieking  woman  clings  to  her  waist, 
And   her  hands  are  held  by  another: 
Terribly  standing,  in  accents  wild, 
Idly  demanding  her  beautiful  child, 
Staring  with  eyes  in  a  fire-like  glow, 
Tearing  the  lace  from  her  bosom  of  snow. 

There  is  running  to  and  fro, 

And  the  talking  of  many  men ; 
But  an  hour  goes  by  before  they  find 

The  beautiful  boy  of  ten ; 
Quietly  raising  him  under  their  breath, 
Earnestly  praising    his  beauty  in  death, 

6*  •     E 


66  THE   SKATERS. 

Putting  his  limbs  in  a  natural  way, 
Shutting  his  eyes  from  the  light  of  the  day. 

But. the  mother  has  broken  her  guard, 
And  lies  on  the  breast  of  her  child  ; 
She  is  kissing  the  pallid,  oozing  lips 

That  the  waters  have  defiled ; 
Gloomily,  pressing  the  baby-like  corse, 
Fondly  caressing,   and  mourning    her  loss, 
Trying  to  waken  the  voice  of  the  dead, 

Crying  to  God   for  the  soul  that  is  fled. 

i 

She  has  raised   the  babe  in  her  arms, 

Rejecting  all  offer  of  aid ; 
His  arm  falls  over  her  shoulder, 

And   his  head  on  her  bosom  is  laid ; 
Wearily  bearing   her  burden  of  death, 
Tenderly  caring  as  though  he  had   breath, 
Creeping  along  with  a  staggering  pace, 
Weeping,   and   kissing  the  little  pale  face. 


THE   SKATERS.  6f 

I   stand   on  the  frozen  river, 

• 
But  the  skaters  no  longer  go  by ; 

They  are  gathered  in  groups  at  the  landings, 

Under  the  cold  gray  sky  ; 
Woefully  talking  of  what  they  .had  seen, 
Steadily  walking  where  late  they  had  been, 
Running  with  terror  at  every  sound, 
Shunning  the  spot  where  the  boy  was  drowned. 


GIVE    ME    DRINK. 

'T^HERE'S    my  money ;   give  me  drink  I 

Fire  to  feed  my  hungry  blood. 
Drown  my  slightest  wish  to  think : 

Give  me  drink  ! 

Drench  me  in  the  burning  flood, 
Until  life  and  soul  are  numb, 

Until  every  pulse  is  dumb, 

* 
Give  me  drink ! 

There's  my  clothing,  there's  my  food ; 
Strip  my  limbs  and  leave  them  bare, 
What  care  I  how  people  stare? 

Give  me  drink  ! 

They  know  not  the  fearful  thirst 
Of  what  they  call  the  cup  accursed — 
The  cup  in  which  my  brain's  immersed  ; 

Give  me   drink  ! 


GIVE   ME    D If  INK.  69 

There's  my  children,  give  me  drink  ! 

Make  me  drunken  in  my  heart ; 
I  would  sever  every  link, 

Ere  my  cup  and  I  should   part : 

Give  me  drink  I 
There  is  no  nepenthe  here, 
Unhallowed  by  a  woman's  tear, 
Unflavored  with  a  wise  man's  sneer ; 
Their  notice  makes  the  draught  more  dear. 

Give  me  drink ! 
There's  my  health  and  peace  of  mind, 

- 1  will  give  it  all  to  thee, 
I  will  throw  my  life  behind, 
•I  will  crouch  upon  my  knee : 

Give  me  drink  ! 

There's  my  wife — my  wedded  wife  ! — 
Once  I  loved   her  as  my  life  : 
What  is  wife  and  life  to  me? 

Give  me  drink ! 
Here's  my  standing  as  a  man : 


70  GIVE  ME    D1UNK. 

Give  me  drink  ! 
Here's  my  Christian  love  and   hope  : 

Give  me  drink  ! 
Can  I  bear  the  social   ban? 
I   can   do  what  others   can : 
I  can  crawl,  and  steal,  and  kill, 
So  the  draught  be   at  my  will — 

Give  me  drink  ! 
Here's  my  faith  in   all   mankind : 

Give  me  drink  ! 
I  scatter  it  upon  the  wind — 

Give  me  drink  ! 

And    here — oh,  here's  my  faith  in  God; 
I  will  not  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 
I'll   trample   Heaven  iron-shod : 

Give  me  drink  ! 
Make  me  drunken  in  my  brain, 

I  will  give  thee  wealth  and  fame ; 
Make  me  drunken  in  my  heart, 
I  will  give  thee  spotless  name : 


GIVE  ME  DRINK.  >Jl 

Give  me  drink ! 

Make  me«drunken  night  and  day; 
I  will  give  my  soul  away, 
God,  and  peace,  and  child,  and  wife, 
Love,  and  faith,   and  hope,   and  life ! 

Give  me  drink  I 


"IT    WILL     ALL     BE    RIGHT     IN 
THE     MORNING." 

T    STOOD  by  the  couch  of  my  darling, 

And  watched  the  light  in  her  eyes ; 
I  held  her  fevered  fingers, 

And  echoed  her  softest  sighs. 
But  the  time  wore  wearily  onward, 

Till  it  marked  the  sunset  hour, 
And  the  light  went  out  from  my  darling's  eyes, 

As  the  bloom  goes  out  from  the  flower. 

Ah  !   then  with  a  sickening  tremor, 

I  watched  for  the  soothing  balm 
That  should  come  at  the  hands  of  the  healer, 

And  shield  my  love  from  harm. 
It  came  at  the  hour  of  sunset ; 

A  grave  and  an  aged  man, 

72 


"IT  WILL  ALL  BE  MIGHT  IN  THE  MO  UN  ING."  73 

Who  held  the  gift  of  a  healing  hand, 
As  far  as  a  mortal  can. 

He  counted  her  pulses  that  fluttered 

Like  wild  imprisoned  birds  ; 
And  then,  with  a  glance  to  heaven, 

He  spake  these  cheering  words  : 
•"  It  will   all   be   right   in    the    morning." 

Oh  !   skill  of  a  learned  leech, 
Those  words,  to  my  worldly  hearing, 

What  a   world   of  hope   they   reach  ! 

*'  It  will   all   be    right   in   the   morning!" 
I   murmured  them   through   the   night, 

As  I  watched  her  heavily  breathing, 
And  longed   for  the   coming  light. 

It  came  with  its  golden  sunshine, 
And  I  turned  to   my   darling's  bed, 

To  kiss  her  lips  as  a  welcome, 

But '  I   found   my   loved   one  dead. 

r 


74  "/71   WILL  ALL  BE  RIGHT  IN  THE  MORNING* 

Dead  !     Dead  with  the   morning's   coming, 

Dead !     Dead   with  the   words  on    my  ear, 
"  It  will   all  be  right  in  the  morning !" 

And  now  but  her  form  is   here. 
O    heart,   in   thy   wild   resistance 

At  the   stern   decree  of  the   Lord, 
Rebelling   to   part  with   an   atom 

From   out  of  thine   earthly   hoard ! 

"  It  will  all  be  right  in  the  morning !" 

It  was  truth   the   wise   leech   spoke, 
And  in   the   heavenly   sunshine 

My   darling  one   awoke — 
Awoke  from   a   dream  of  sorrow, 

To  dwell  in  the  far-off  lands, 
Where,   if  all  be  right  in  the  morning, 

Once  more  I   shall  clasp  her  hands. 


GOD  BLESS  YOUR  BEAUTIFUL 
HAND! 

'T~"NHE    hand  of  my   lady   is   soft   and  white ; 

For  the   sculptor's   skill   a  test ; 
The  eyes  of  my  lady   are  deep  and  bright, 
And  her  lips   with  kindness  blest. 

She    moves  with  the   grace   of  a  crowned   queen, 

Who  walks  in   a   loving  land, 
But  of  all  her  charms  the   world   has  seen, 

There   is  none  like   her  beautiful   hand. 

And  I   marveled  much,   for  many   a  day, 
How  the  world   so  blind  could   be, 

That  it  cast  all   her  other  charms   away, 
And   only  the   hand   could   see  ; 

75 


j6        GOD   BLESS    TOUR  BEAUTIFUL   HAND' 

Until,   as  I   sought  a  lonely  street, 

One  bitter  December  eve, 
I   heard  the  fall  of  my  lady's  feet, 

And  a  sad  voice   moan   and   grieve. 

And  then  I   saw  her  muffled  form 

Draw  nigh  to  a  sightless  elf, 
And   about  it  wrap,  both  close  and  warm, 

The  shawl  she  had  worn  herself. 

Then   bending   her   head  with  a  nameless  grace 
To  the  beggar's  outstretched   palms, 

She  silently  gazed  in  the  hungered  face, 
And  gave  it  a  queenly   alms. 

The  old   child  caught  at  the  fingers  white, 

As  though   for  a   fierce   demand, 
And  said,  "Oh,  what  would  I  give  for  my  sight! 

God  bless  your  beautiful  hand  !" 


GOD  BLESS    TOUR  BEAUTIFUL   HAND!       "ft 

Since  then  I   marvel  no  more  if  the   thought 
Should  go  through   the  length  of  the  land, 
And    all    that   is    proud    of    the    earth    shall    have 
sought 

The  charm   of  my   lady's   hand. 

7» 


FARMER    BROWN. 

S~~\LD  Farmer  Brown,   with   ruddy   face, 

Sat  stretched  before  the  chimney-place ; 
He   sat  and   watched  the  crackling   logs, 
The  purring  cat,   the  dreaming  dogs, 
That,   like  himself,   were  stretched   at  ease, 
Safe  sheltered  from   the   chill   night-breeze, 
And   with  the  freedom   comfort  brings, 
The  farmer  thought  these  selfish  things : 

• 

««  Let  foolish   people  grieve   and  sigh 
At  care   that  does   not  come   anigh ; 
I'm   not  so  weak  to  wail  at  what, 
However  bad,    concerns  me  not. 
My  barns   are   full   with   golden   grain, 
My  limbs  are  stout  and  free  from   pain, 

78 


FARMER   BROWN.  79 

And  out,   as  far  as   eye   can  see, 
The   well-kept  fields  belong  to  me. 

"  My  appetite  is  always  sound 
Whene'er  the  dinner-hour  comes  round : 
And  faith,  betwixt  the  wife  and  me 
There's  not  much  difference,  as  I  see. 
She's  hearty,  merry,  stout  and  fair, 
No   touch  of  silver  in  her  hair ; 
She  grows,  as  years  pass  swift  away, 
Much  better-looking  every  day. 

**  I  read  of  cities  lost  and  won, 
Of  deeds  of  bloody  valor  done, 
Of  fearful  battles,  fought  in  vain, 
With  scores  of  thousands  for  the  slain ; 
Of  ravaged  homes,  insulted  wives, 
And  children  fleeing  for  their  lives. 
But  why  should  I  repine  at  these 
When  they  do  not  disturb  mine  ease? 


8o  FARMER  BROWN. 

"The  blood  shed  in  these  fearful  fights 
Does  not  disturb  my  sleep  of  nights ; 
The  thousands  that  they  choose  to  slay 
Take  not  my  appetite  away. 
This  mug  of  cider  by  my  side 
Does  not  across  my  palate  glide 

Less  smoothly  when  the  clash  of  war 

" 
Comes  faint  and  harmless  to  my  door. 

"Then  why  should  I  repine,  who  ne'er 
Am  troubled  with  a  single  care? 
Stop — let  me  think  !     Ah,  yes,  with  one — 
My  wandering  Will,  my  truant  son — 
He  whom  we  loved,  our  darling  child, 
So  handsome,  kind,   and  yet  so  wild  ! 
A  word,  regretted  ere  its  birth, 
Sent  Will  a  wanderer  o'er  the  earth. 

"  If  Will  were  but  at  home  again, 
The  world  might  war  for  me  in  vain. 


FARMER  BROWN.  8 1 

A  knock  !    Who's  that?    Come  in?    Ah,  Jones  I" 
The  farmer  cried,  in  cheery  tones. 
"  Walk  in  !    Sit  down  !     Here,  wile,  a  light ! 
What  brought  you  out  this  stormy  night? 
Why,  man,  your  face  is  stretched  as  long 
As  any  tramping  beggar's  song." 

•'Ah,  Neighbor  Brown,  it  grieves  me  sore 

To  enter  thus  your  welcome  door. 

The  news  I  bear  is  very  sad : 

Your  son "  "Good  Lord,  what  of  the  lad?" 

"Your  son  was  killed  at  Shiloh  fight; 

He  died  while  battling  for,  the  right. 

So,  Neighbor  Brown,  bow  to  God's  will; 

He  knows  best  when  to  save  or  kill." 

Poor  Farmer  Brown,  with  starting  eyes, 

Stood  now  erect.     With  mournful  cries, 

"O  Lord!"  he  said,  "what  have  I  done, 

That  thou  shouldst  take  my  only  son?" 
F 


82  FARMER  BROWN. 

And  then  a  something  whispered  loud, 
"  Thou  selfish  man,  whom  God  endowed, 
Take  to  thy  heart  this  lifelong  blow, 
And  learn  to  share  thy  fellow's  woe !" 


THE    PATTER    OF    LITTLE    FEET 


/^~\VER   my  head,  in  the  morning  early, 

I  heard  the  patter  of  little  feet, 
Rising  above  the  hurly-burly 

Out  in  the  fast-awakening  street. 
I  like  my  nap  in  the  morning  early  — 

That  drowsy,  sleeping,  waking  time  — 
And  am  apt  to  give  way  to  a  touch  of  the  surly 

With  one  who  breaks  on  its  soothing  rhyme, 

And  so  this  morn,  when  I  heard  the  clatter, 

I  turned  uneasily  in  my  bed, 
And   bothered  my  brain  to  guess  the  matter 

With  the  little  ones  pattering  over  my  head. 
My  nap  was  gone,  and  in  humor  sulky 

I  stretched  a  loud  and  imperious  yawn. 


33 


84  THE   PATTER    OF  LITTLE    FEET. 

And  then,  with  a  word  both  big  and  bulky, 
I  blessed  the  hour  those  babes  were  born. 

With  a  knitted    brow  and  a  hasty  toilet. 

I   made  up  my  mind  as  I  mounted   the    stairs, 
Whatever  the  fun,  I  would  quickly  spoil  it 

Bv  coming  upon  them  unawares. 
I  never  had  seen  my  top-floor  neighbors ; 

This  only  I  knew,  that  the  tidy  house, 
Save  and  except  for  these  infantine  labors, 

Was  silent  and  still  as  a  baby-mouse. 

I  knocked  at  the  door,  and  a  moment  waited; 

The  noise  was  hushed  to  a  whispered  word; 
The  patter  of  little  feet  abated, 

And  a  tiny  hand  on  the  knob  I  heard. 
The  door,  with  a  labored  opening,  started, 

And  full  in  its  light  a  vision  appeared, 
Th;,t  carried  my  heart  to  the  days  departed, 

And   the  one  to  whom  it  was  ever  endeared. 


THE  PATTER    OF  LITTLE   FEET.  85 

Oh,  vision  of  life  in  the  darkened  palace 

Where  I  have  enshrined  the  one  of  my  love! 
What  vestige  remained  of  the  wrath  and  malice 

I  threatened  to  wreak  on  the  noise  above? 
What  memoried  thought  is  the  one  I  anumeeting? 
What   hands  are   they  stretched    as  I  entered 

the  door? 

"  Are  you  my  papa?"  was  the  baby-like  greeting ; 
"Are    you    my    papa,    come    home    from    the 
war?" 

"No,   darling,"  I  said,  with  a  choking  emotion, 
"  I    am   not  your   papa,    come   home   from   the 

war ; 

I  am   only  a  waif  on  the  fathomless  ocean, 
With   no    one   to   love    me    the   wear}-    world 

o'er." 

'•With  no  one  to  love  you?"  the  baby  replies; 
"I   will    love    you   myself — you    shall    be    my 
papa." 


86  THE  PATTER    OF  LITTLE    FEET. 

And  I  caught  the  sweet  child  with  the  wondering 

eyes 
Up  close  to  my  breast  where  the  memories  are. 

Oh,  where  was  my  heart  as  I  lay  in  bed  dozing, 
And    the   noise  overhead  could  not  quicken   its 

beat? 

The  chambers  of  memory  surely  were  closing 
When    no    entrance    was    found    for   those    dear 

little  feet; 
For  had  I  the  riches  we  read  of  in  story, 

I    would    give    up    the    whole    to    sweep    away 

years — 
To  bring   back  the  pleasure,  the  wealth  and  the 

glory, 
The  patter  of  dear  little  feet  to  my  ears. 


OLD    NEWS. 

/""^\H!    grandfather,   grandfather,  listen  to  me! 
The    most   wonderful    news   has    come   over 

the  sea — 

The  most  glorious  news  of  the  battles  afar, 
Where    a   million    of    men    have   been    armed    for 

the  war. 

From  the  field  of  Magenta  the  Austrian s  fled, 
And    a   score   of   their   thousands   were    left   with 

the  dead. 

O'er  the  slopes  of  Palestro  the  conquerors  bore 
The     eagles    of    France     through    a    torrent    of 

gore; 
And    the    Austrian    legions    were    swept    in    the 

gale, 
As  the  husk  is  struck  off  by  a  blow  of  the  flail. 


88  OLD  NEWS. 

Oh !     grandfather,     grandfather,     read    the    great 

news ; 

It  will  tell  you  the  chances  for  glory  you  lose  ; 
It  will  tell  of  the  joy  for  the  victories  won, 
And  the  shouts  of  the  nations  for  deeds  that  were 

done. 

Dear  grandfather,  why  don't  you  hurry  away, 
With  your  bright-bladed  sword,  to  the  midst  of  the 

fray  ? — 
That  bright-bladed  sword  which  you  said,  in  my 

hand, 
Should  some  day  strike  blows  for  my  own  native 

land? 

Oh  !    grandfather,  what  a  great  thing  it  would  be 
Could  we  both  but  have  been  in  those  fights  over 

sea ! 

There  were   flashes  of  light   in  the   grandfather's 

eyes, 
And  a  chuckle  that  mingled  itself  with  his  sighs, 


OLD   NE\VS.  89 

As  he  shook  his  white  head,  with  a  half-smothered 
groan, 

And  knocked  out  his  pipe  on  the  brown  lintel- 
stone. 

Ah !  boy,  it  is  one  thing  to  strike  for  otil 
lives, 

For  the  land  that  we  live  in,  our  children  and 
wives, 

And  another  to  battle  with   halters  in  sight, 

Unknowing  the  quarrels  that  drive  us  to  fight. 

To  cut  and  to  slash  at  a  despot's  command 

Is  not  fighting,  my  boy,  for  your  own  native 
land. 

The    echo    that    comes    from    the    boom    of    the 

gun 

Is  lost  in  the  shouts  when  the  battle-  is  done ; 
But   the    groans  of  the   wounded    and   shrieks   of 

the  slain 
Will  be  heard  in  the  echoes  again  and  again ; 

8* 


90  OLD  NEWS. 

They  will   sound  in  the  hearts,   and   be  answered 

with  tears, 
When    the    field    where   they    fell    is    grown    over 

with  years. 
The     news      of     a     fight     is     like     fresh-opened 

wine — 
You  must  quench  all  your  thirst  while  its  bubbles 

still  shine  ; 
You   must   drink    while   the    perfume   is   fresh   on 

the  breath, 
For    the    dregs     are    a    mixture    of    sorrow    and 

death. 

I   fought,  my  brave   boy,   when   to  skulk  were  a 

shame 
That   could    never   be    wiped   from    the   line    of  a 

name ; 

I  fought  when  refusal  so  blackened  the  youth 
That  his  grandchild  still  blushes  when  told  of  the 

truth  : 


OLD  NEWS.  91 

When    the    white    hair   of    age   marched    proudly 

between 

The  iron-limbed  man  and  the  boy  of  fourteen ; 
When  the  crack  of  our  rifles  on  Lexington  plain 
Was  echoed,  and  echoed,   and  echoed   again : 
There   were    echoes,    my   boy,    from    the    hills   to- 

the  sea, 

• 

In  the  hearts  of  a  million  who  longed  to  be 
free. 

With  us  there  was  nothing  of  glitter  and  gold — 
There  was  squalor  and   rags,   and    starvation  and 

cold : 

«* 

There  were  barefooted  men,  who  were  tracked 
by  their  blood 

On  the  stone-jagged  road  or  the  icy-bridged  flood; 

There  were  men  who  had  sworn  by  their  foe- 
ravaged  lands, 

By  their  blood-darkened  hearths,  with  their  swords, 
in  their  hands — 


92  OLD  NEWS. 

\yho    had    sworn    that    their    kindred    should    see 

them  no  more 
Till    the   land  should  be  free  from  the  curse  that 

it  bore. 
Those  were  times  when  the  battle-field,  gory  and 

red, 
Bloomed  with  flowers  perpetual  over  the  dead. 

The  news  of  those  battles  will  never  grow  old — 
They  grow  by  the  telling,  a  thousand  times  told  ; 
But  of  fights  that  are  fought  for  glory  alone, 
Ere  the  fighting  is  over  the  glory  is  flown. 
It  is  dimmed  on  the  crests  of  the  conquering  hosts 
By  the  pale,  bloody  hands  of  a  legion  of  ghosts ; 
It  is  washed  from  the  blades  of  victorious  chiefs 
By    the     heart-sweating     tears    of     a    million    of 

griefs. 

Yes  1   even,  my  boy,  from  the  head  of  a  king 
It    is    trampled    and    crushed     like     a    valueless 

thing. 


OLD  NEWS.  93 

When  the  battle  is  over,  the  scarlet*  and  gold 
Shall  speedily  rot  in  the  blood-nurtured  mould ; 
The  steed  and  his  rider  shall  stay  where  they  fall^ 
And  the  stout  idle  worm  shall  be  master  of  all; 
The  rains  shall  wash    down  all    the  proud    clotted 

gore, 
And  the  winds  bear  away  the  last  shreds  of  the 

war. 
Yet,   unless   they    have    stricken    for    freedom    and 

right, 

The  wails  of  the  dying  shall  fade  on  the  night ; 
But  if  God  shall  be  with  them,  their  hearts  shall 

be  bold, 
And   the    news   of   their   battle    shall    never   grow 

old. 


MISSING:     PRIVATE    WILLIAM 
SMITH. 

OERGEANT!    enter  on  your  roll, 

"Missing — Private  William  Smith." 
Death  is  but  a  passing  dream, 

Life  a  false  and  shadowy  myth. 
Comrades,  close  your  gaping  ranks ! 

He  was  of  the  first  platoon  ; 
Missing  Private  William  Smith 

Doubtless  will  be  heard  of  soon. 

Missing  Private  William  Smith 

Led  the  charge  that  turned  the  day; 

Through  the  thickest  of  the  fight, 
Step  by  step,  he  clove  his  way. 

When  I  last  saw  Private  Smith 

He  was  grimed  with  smoke  and  gore, 


MSSSSWG:    PRIVATE    WILLIAM  SMITH.         95 


What  if  Private  William  Smith 


Should  be  heard  of  never  more? 

Comrades !   soldiers  should  not  mourn. 

He  was  every  inch  a  man  ! 
Men  have  fallen  in  the  fight 

Ever  since  the  world  began. 
Yet  I  would  I  knew  for  truth, 

Now  the  fight  is  past  and  done — 
Missing  Private  William  Smith 

Has  a  wife  and  little  one. 

Would  I  knew  that  clanking  chains 

Bound  his  iron  muscles  o'er ! 
Would  I  knew  a  prison  wall 

Held  his  limbs,  though  wounded  sore  1 
Would  that  missing  Private  Smith 

May  be  heard  of  once  again ! 
Wounded,  captive,  so  that  he 

Be  not  of  the  nameless  slain. 


96         MISSfJVG:    PRIVATE    WILLIAM  SMITH. 

Missing  Private  William  Smith 

Has  a  wife  and  little  one  ; 
She  was  once  a  love  of  mine, 

Ere  my  life  had  scarce  begun. 
I  should  hardly  like  to  speak 

To  her  of  so  strange  a  myth, 
When  the  war  is  over,  as 

Missing  Private  William  Smith* 


I  WISH  THAT  I  COULD  RUN  AWAY. 

T~\O  you  remember,  chum  of  mine, 
How  forty  years,  or  more,  ago, 
In  days  when  we  were,  wont  to  whine 

O'er  some  tyrannic  schoolmarm's  blow? — 
Do  you  remember  one  marked  day, 

When,  smarting  from  the  birchen  pain,v 
We  packed  our  traps  to  run  away ; 

And  run  we  did,  with  might  and  main? 

Our  wealth,  in  one  newspaper  rolled — 
Two  shirts,  two  handkerchiefs,  a  top, 

Two  pairs  of  socks,  grown  somewhat  old, 
And  sundry  ears  of  corn,  to  pop  ; 

Two  dozen  marbles,  several  strings, 

Slate-pencils,  and  a  choice  whip-lash, 
9  G  97 


98  /  WISH   THAT  I   COULD  RUN  A  WAT. 

Three  buttons,  and  some  minor  things, 
And  nineteen  cents  in  solid  cash ! 

We  wandered,  that  November  day, 

At  least  four  miles  away  from  home, 
When,  just  as  we  began  to  say, 

"How  sweet  it  is  to  freely  roam, 
With  every  hedge  a  sheltering  inn  !" — 

There  came  a  cold  and  drenching  rain 
That  wet  us  to  the  very  skin ; — 

That  night  we  slept  at  home  again. 

As  time  passed  on,  I  thought  and  laughed 

At  that  sad  escapade  of  ours, 
And  yet  the  thought  would  always  waft 

A  perfume,  as  of  memoried  flowers. 
I  find  that  with  my  growing  years, 

With  hair  well-streaked  with  certain  gray, 
And  all  that  time  and  taste  endears, 

A  strong  desire  to  run  away — 


/  WISH   THAT  I  COULD   RUN  AWAT.          99 

To  run  away  and  be  at  peace, 

With  none  to  question,  none  to  claim; 
To  shut  away  the  world's  caprice, 

Its  turmoil,  falsehood,  and  its  shame ; 
To  run  away  from  struggling  men, 

Who  crush  their  brothers  in  the  dust — 
From  ledger,  cash-book,  ink  and  pen, 

From  cant,  hypocrisy  and  lust. 

To  run  from  crowded  cities,  where 

The  voice  of  man  is  never  still ; 
To  run  from  where  the  worm  of  care 

Is  throned  above  Almighty  will ; 
To  run  away  to  fields  and  flowers, 

And  listen  to  the  insect  hum — 
To  lie  forgetful  of  the  hours, 

Forgetful  of  the  time  to  come. 

I  sometimes  think,  good  chum  of  mine, 
That  day  ill-chosen  for  our  jaunt : 


100        I  WISH    THAT  I   COULD   RUN  AWAY. 

Should  I  again  to  run  incline, 

'Twould  not  be  in  November  gaunt, 

But  in  the  lusty  summer-time, 

When  birds  and  bees  sing  all  the  day, 

When  Nature  seems  a  pleasant  rhyme : 
That  is  the  time  to  run  away. 

Believe    me,  that  no  sex  or  age 

Forgets  that  legend  of  its  youth ; 
But,  like  a  bird  in  gilded  cage, 

Each  pines  for  liberty  and  truth ; 
We  writhe  beneath  some  worldly  pain, 

Refuse  its  mandates  to  obey ; 
Sigh  for  our  childhood's  days  again, 

And  wish  that  we  could  run  away. 


